


Lazarus

by RoswellSmokingWoman



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Character Death but not Will or Hannibal, Dark Will, Dark Will Graham, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Self-Discovery, Slow Burn, This is a dark romance, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, metaphorical death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23644462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoswellSmokingWoman/pseuds/RoswellSmokingWoman
Summary: Will dies the night of the fall, but not physically. He rises a different man, his hands soaked in blood. Hannibal is enchanted with the new Will at first, but finds it difficult to resolve their past with their present, aching for the Will who helped him see light in his dark world. Will struggles to find normalcy with Hannibal, though it's what they both want, and it's something Will fears he can never achieve. Soon, Will gains a hunger that surpasses even Hannibal's, a hunger that scares Hannibal.
Relationships: Chiyoh/Bedelia Du Maurier, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 31





	1. Before and After

**Author's Note:**

  * For [APastandFutureNerd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/APastandFutureNerd/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Billie Eilish--Everything I Wanted

It is a cold night, their breaths foggy. Their bodies are achingly close to each other, their arms trembling and breaths heaving. The moonlight bathes their bodies, covered in blood, shimmering black in the darkness of the night. He focuses on how they clutch each other; their knuckles white from the desperation to which they cling. For a moment, he feels alive, like a beast high on the scent of blood. The feeling is fleeting. It becomes replaced by something similar to regret—perhaps the echo of a much younger version of him, one with doe eyes and a vulnerable innocence who would have shouted ‘This is not how my life was suppose to unfold,’ almost stubbornly so, dipped in denial. So, he doesn’t hold onto life, but instead onto the man across from him, his anchor. The blood glistened black on Hannibal’s face, and he could understand the look in those eyes—not from another body, but conjoined as if he is Hannibal, and Hannibal is him. Like this, the world silenced to a hush around them, time pausing as they gaze into each other’s eyes—they are beautiful. He holds onto Hannibal tighter, bringing him in closer and placing his head on his chest. Bathed in beauty and moonlight, blood and death, he tips them over the edge of the cliff. It happens without much effort, gracefully, their bodies heaving over naturally propelled by gravity. Neither of them could scream. Falling, he remembers the words Hannibal had told him, a simple reminder: _it is after midnight, I am falling towards the roiling Atlantic, and my name is Will Graham._ This is his reality.

The wind is harsh against their skin. It is distressing how they could feel everything—that they have no reflex to drift into unconsciousness to avoid pain. Instead, they are wide eyed, looking down and then to each other. Hannibal opens his mouth to tell something to Will, but closes his lips quickly, bracing himself for the crash. Hannibal’s face becomes shrouded by a deadly calm as they fall, giving up terror and fear, certainly for his own life. Will looks back at with him hope, not for and afterlife, but for an end to their tale of betrayal and pain. It takes too long for their bodies to hit the water, anticipation growing inside of Will’s belly like a frenzied beast. His heart beats quickly, each beat heavier than the last. When their bodies hit the water, it is cold and sharp like vaccination needles on their battered flesh. Will thinks to himself— _this is it, the great big bang before the end, where will sink to the ocean floor and become food for the fish—who would become food for the humans—and we would be consumed, cannibalized in the cycle of life. Hannibal must be satisfied._

But like their fall, Will Graham doesn’t die quickly enough. His body floats up to the surface of the water, defiant, or perhaps in a betrayal by God, where is he forced to watch as Hannibal tumbles through the water, his back hitting a rock before the waves carry him back upwards and away from him. The distance becomes heartbreak as Will reaches out for him, a cloud of pink surrounding his arms. He is unable to move fast enough through the water, Hannibal too far from reach now. Hannibal escapes him quickly, Will’s mouth opening up in a scream but only bubbles coming out from his mouth as he sinks back down. Empowered, he kicks his feet, the water’s current strong, but he manages to push his head up to the surface once more.

“Hannibal,” he shouts, his voice curdled and straining. He tastes blood in his throat as he rips through his vocal cords in a desperate cry, resonating in the air around him. “Hannibal!

The silence is crushing, worse than the stab of a knife through his pelvis, deeper than the loss of the foster daughter they shared in Abigail, and more crushing than the three years he spent without Hannibal. He wats longer the he should, pushing his body to work against the current. It’s foolish, he knows, that he doesn’t care about himself or his life, and instead searches for Hannibal.

“Hannibal!” he screams once more.

There is no echo, no raspy and accented response. There is no, “Dear Will,” which he had grown so accustomed to hearing—which he had hated, but in this moment can’t. He craves to hear those words, however far they would be from him. But they do not come.

His body, in response to not his brain, but some other nameless thing within him, stops. His arms and legs no longer push against the water, allowing the current to take him. This is what he had wanted when he pushed them both off the cliff, he reminds himself, opening his mouth to take in the briny water. His stomach crashes into a jagged rock, tearing his shirt to shreds. He closes his eyes, preparing himself for the end.

Edging closer to Will, Hannibal thinks to himself— _stupid, impetuous, beautiful, lovely man._ He watches as Will lets go of himself, dipping his toes into fate. He tests it out, determining it is to his liking. He could have braced himself; Hannibal know. He chose not to, letting himself crash into the rock with defeat. Hannibal’s arms and legs protest in pain, his blood flowing out of him and into the water, but Hannibal goes on, taking advantage of the current to send him towards Will.

Will’s head disappears under the water as Hannibal reaches down, grabbing him and pulling him back up with determination. With his free hand, Hannibal barely manages to grip the edge of a rock. He can only hold on for so long before another powerful wave would send them away from their safety. The time they have before then, Hannibal uses to watch Will, to hold him. He has simple wants, if these are his last moments.

He knows it would be impossible, to survive, but doesn’t let impossibility dictate his efforts. Instead, he clasps onto Will, pressing a kiss to his forehead for one last time before joining him with closed eyes—surrendering to a fate he knows would be on his side.

_I have him, finally_ , Hannibal thinks to himself, and that’s all he’d ever needed.

Their bodies, scraping against the rough floor, float back up to the surface where there are calmer waters now. They land on the shore, Hannibal still conscious though Will not. With a few breaths, Hannibal regains his strength and crawls over to Will where he pinches his nose with one hand and keeps his mouth open with the other. His lips fall over Will’s, not in a kiss, but in a giving of life, breathing salty air into his lungs. He had imagined their first kiss would be different, and he is determined that it will be different. They would have another chance. Every breath ages Hannibal as if he is giving himself as a sacrifice to a fallen god. Will stirs, the air in his lungs stinging, and his throat closing and opening in protest as water sputters out from his mouth. He pushes himself away from Hannibal, getting on his hands and knees.

“Why?” Will cries, hurt. He turns to see Hannibal whose eyes are watering.

Had Hannibal made a mistake? "Would you prefer me to put you back?” The words come from his lips like the sting of an angered bee. There is something in his face, an emotion that he cannot hide from Will, that tells Will he too thought they would have died that night. Hannibal had expected it, perhaps hadn’t cared. But he is glad, all the same, that they hadn’t.

With a sigh, Will sits in the sand, pulling his knees into his chest. Hannibal sits down next to him, panting. Once again, silence consumes them, though they are no longer bathed in blood. The universe provides them with room to breathe, to reflect. They rose from the sea cleansed of a life that feels distant now, miles and miles above them, the edge of the cliff almost obscured in the distance.

“That is no longer a possibility,” Will relents, letting his back fall into the sand.

He stares up at the star-dotted sky, finding him and Hannibal staring back at him, a reflection. He looks foreign to himself, wilder and more unhinged. This isn’t Will Graham, he thinks. The weakness of his limbs hadn’t hit him before, exhaustion creeping up as a specter and possessing him slowly. He smiles weakly at Hannibal whose eyes remain transfixed on Will, a mixture of awe and also gratitude in their murky black pools.

“You are no longer conflicted, though resolve doesn’t bury the past,” Hannibal notes.

“I’d prefer to think of this as death. I am dead.” Will is shaking, staring at his own hands.

“You’re reborn,” Hannibal counters, insists. “From blood and salt, you rise.”

“And what about you?”

“The same as you and not the same. You were asleep, for a long time, forcing yourself to live with closed eyes.”

“I believed in you, Hannibal. It’s why I came back.”

“I woke you up, Will.”

Will feels close to him now, his damage settling within him as he shakily brings his hand over Hannibal’s. It’s a sign of friendship, of future. Will clasps his hand over Hannibal’s to tell him what he cannot bring himself to say out loud. _We are together in this._ Hannibal smiles faintly; his gaze is now directed at the water. He was never a religious man, but the ghost of a prayer is on his lips, a simple thank you to the universe for deciding it isn’t time for them to go quite yet.

Will felt that was wrong in way, that the universe had let him slip into death and put a new man in his place. This man is strange though familiar, as if he’d walked in his shoes before. But Will’s skin is too tight, his body to small and fragile to hold in its new captor. Though his hands are cleaned of blood, he finds them stained with red. This is who he is, now. _There is before and there is after_ , Will thinks to himself. _This is after._

He closes his eyes, Hannibal beside him, burying his cheek into the cold and wet sand. He finds his dogs and Molly when he sleeps, melting away like a candle to a flame. A stark blackness replaces his past, the present where he stands. The frigid darkness takes a hold of him, the wendigo appearing from the shadows and wrapping its claws around him in an embrace. It purrs into his ear, whispering of murder and resurrection, beauty and death. He becomes lost in it, his knees weak in its grasp. Will lets it hold him, because it has the strength he doesn’t have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You’re reborn,” Hannibal counters, insists. “From blood and salt, you rise.”
> 
> “And what about you?”
> 
> “The same as you and not the same. You were asleep, for a long time, forcing yourself to live with closed eyes.”
> 
> “I believed in you, Hannibal. It’s why I came back.”
> 
> “I woke you up, Will.”
> 
> In these last lines I reference the Bible story of Lazarus, where Lazarus rose from the dead only because he believed in Christ. Similarly, Will regains his life (the one he had before Molly, or the next step of that life) simply because he believes in Hannibal and returned to him. Hannibal reiterates this with "I woke you up, Will." Notice, Hannibal doesn't think that Will is the same, but views their survival as rebirth.


	2. Nausea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Lana del Rey--Norman F*cking Rockwell

Nausea

The sound of the rolling waves changes to something other, creaking, moaning, sobbing even. Through the blurry vision in front of him, glaring lights blinding almost, he hears the gentle rumble of Hannibal’s voice, guiding him. At first, he doesn’t understand the words, soft and murmured, but he listens to them regardless. They tether him to the knowledge that this is reality, that he is alive, though even this knowledge is unstable and wavering just as the sea. When the wendigo had taken him on the beach into its chilled embrace, Will could have sworn that those were his last moments breathing, suffocating in the darkness.

He doesn’t know how to feel, that every time he closes his eyes, he knows he will wake, life stubbornly breathed into his lungs, heart defiantly pumping blood throughout his body. His veins even protest at it, keen to be at the bottom of the sea. He doesn’t feel the pain in the beginning, but rather a merciful numbness. It’s detestable at first, that he could wiggle his fingers, reach out, but his arms would sink back as concrete cinder blocks, heavy and unmanageable. He swears when the numbness goes away, replaced by a pain that rattles his bones. He chokes out sobs, screaming wildly even in his sleep for it to go away.

He’s only lucid for a few moments in the day, opening his blue eyes to find a concerned Hannibal, with sharp features deflated, eyes bloodshot, and lips agape. He presses a cold towel into his forehead, shushing Will, a hand placed tenderly at his arm, rubbing circles into it with the pad of his thumb.

“Infection will set in if your wounds reopen. Please, try not to move,” Hannibal begs. Desperation coats his voice, each word fragile. Will recalls him saying these words to him before, frantic. But now, he is even more so, on the verge of breaking completely.

“I’m going to die, Hannibal,” Will responds with a laugh, demented.

Hannibal only shakes his head, gnashing his teeth to hold back an argument, turning the wet rag over to the cooler side. His hand wanders tentatively to Will’s cheek, cupping it ever so lightly. Whenever Will is too weak to turn his head is the only time Hannibal feels he can caress Will. All too quickly, his hand moves away with a hitched breath, unsure.

“Breath leaves unwilling lungs fleetingly,” Hannibal begins in a jagged whisper. “The appeal of abandoning this life is great for you. I wonder what’s behind your closed eyes when you sleep, calling you away from me.”

Will opens his mouth to speak, but finds himself lulled away from consciousness again, a blurry darkness pierced by light surrounding him instead. “Hannibal,” he calls out, shouting into the darkness. He can only hear footsteps walking away, leaving him behind. Alone.

Hannibal climbs the stairs of the boat, his legs sore. He’s happy Will won’t remember how his face is now, bruised and battered, and how it looks upon him with worry. That hopefully years from now, this would be a haze. He finds Chiyoh observing the waters ahead silently, a hawk perched peacefully. It’s almost simple to forget who she is, unexpected in her silence, a predator. She greets him with a curt not, her attention broken by the sound of his footsteps emerging from the hull. He waves at her warily, turning to starboard.

Blonde hair flies wildly in the wind, an angelic halo illuminated by the golden sunlight of dusk. Bedelia smiles coyly at Hannibal, a glass of wine in her hand. He takes his place beside her, humming lowly, gazing at the sunset.

“You’ve been avoiding me, Hannibal,” Bedelia begins carefully, aware that every word spoken to him is a danger. Her tongue tiptoes over the spikes skillfully. “It’s unlike you.”

“I will admit that not all plans can be envisioned. Your presence isn’t unwelcome.” His eyes avoid her challenging gaze.

“Will Graham unravels a side of you which very few have seen. A vulnerability. Vulnerability, Hannibal, is synonymous to risk in your thesaurus. When we are in the throws of love, we often forget to breathe for ourselves.”

“I am taking care of myself,” Hannibal asserts. “My injuries are less extensive.”

“Your life is tied to Will Graham’s, a feared reality that has clouded your judgement.” Bedelia pauses, thinking on her next words. “You have gone to jail for him. You have waited three years for him.”

“I have been thrown over a cliff side,” Hannibal remarks, showing his crooked teeth.

“All for one man?” Bedelia nibbles at her bottom lip, curious as to why Hannibal would go so far for something so banal as love. “Is he worth it?”

“I will have to thank Chiyoh for inviting you on our trip.” He is not accountable to her, not required to answer her questions.

“I’m thrilled to be here, the open sea, room to think. We can project our countless futures onto the infinite horizon in front of us. I wonder, what future do you see?” she sighs, returning to her wine. She knows she’s tested Hannibal’s patience.

Hannibal smiles at himself as he returns to the cabin, the sound of footsteps on the deck like secretive whispers. Chiyoh approaches Bedelia, breath held, eyes shifting carefully to check for Hannibal’s presence. _How curious_ , he thinks to himself with a laugh. He lingers at the stairs, listening to her spitting daggers at Bedelia, for her disrespect. Very few are capable of arousing such anger in his normally stoic charge.

****

Will stares blankly at the pasta on the plate, shifting in the bed. Hannibal doesn’t dare let him out of it, sitting at his side, watching him intently. The rocking of the boat causes bile to bubble up in Will’s stomach, but he beats it down, groaning at the seemingly unappetizing meal. Hannibal frowns in displeasure, knowing that while it isn’t his best work, it is the best he can do on a boat with limited supplies.

“You’re hovering,” Will blurts, looking up from his plate. “It’s difficult to eat with so much intensity.”

“You haven’t eaten much in the past few days,” Hannibal responds simply. “This is the first time you’ve sat up successfully. You need nourishment to recharge.”

The care in Hannibal’s eyes is odd, though not unfamiliar. It fits nearly awkwardly on the sharp angles of his face, almost out of place. Will’s breath hitches at the realization. He grabs is fork tersely, shoveling a bit of pasta onto it. He swallows a bite reluctantly, the pasta dripping down his throat like slime. It isn’t so bad, really, but Will can barely stomach it.

“I promise you better meals once we reach our destination.”

“And where would that be?”

“Chiyoh has an idea,” Hannibal smiles. “She will pick Will, I think.”

Will purses his lips, staring at the small space around him. “The boat? Was that Chiyoh’s doing, too?”

“It seems she had followed us after my escape from Baltimore. I was pleasantly delighted to find her to our rescue…” Hannibal shifts in his place, crossing his legs. His eyes wander over Will’s body, without the same vigor he recalled the man having. “You don’t seem to feel the same.”

“You don’t push someone off the edge of a cliff just for the hell of it,” Will utters, low and dangerous. Behind his eyes he sees them falling, again, the cliffside endless. In his mind, it’s almost too easy to believe that they could still be falling, never reaching the rocks. That could be their hell, their punishment for being as they are. Demons wandering among men, clothes deceptively in human skin. But instead, he finds himself being cared for. This reality is unbearable, almost.

_They survived_.

The fact dawns on him heavily. The fever dreams made this reality seem like the future that flashes in front of one’s eyes before death. The life he could have had, had he chosen otherwise. The tart taste of tomato sauce on his tongue reminds him that this is, in fact, his reality.

“I suppose you do not,” Hannibal shrugs, taking the plate away from Will and into his own lap. He would talk to him at another time, another day when they have more strength to bare it. When he is able to cope with the meaning of being sent off the cliffside by Will Graham.

Will doesn’t expect it, for Hannibal to twirl a bit of spaghetti onto the prongs of the fork and feed Will, bite by bite. Will opens his mouth barely, watching Hannibal with doubt in his eyes. This couldn’t possibly be the man he had met years ago, the Chesapeake Ripper feeding him with such care.

Will smiles deviously, spying the care filling Hannibal’s face.

_Is Hannibal in love with me?_

_Bedelia eyes flash a knowing gaze, entertained at the question._

_Had it really taken so long for Will Graham to know the undeniable?_

“When you are up for it, I’d like to take you up to the deck. Some sunlight might be good for you.” Hannibal feeds Will bite after bite, until roughly two thirds of the plate are polished off.

Will turns his head away then, unable to muster anymore of his appetite. “That’s enough,” he moans, sinking back onto the bed and holding his side in pain.

“Your wounds will heal slowly.”

“What about yours?”

“I manage well enough,” Hannibal sighs, observing Will fondly for only a moment more before standing from his seat.

“I’ll return around dawn.”

Will knows the words are a lie as they leave Hannibal’s lips, watching the man leave his room knowing he would come back much sooner. Will feigns sleep, hours later, waiting for Hannibal’s quiet footsteps to return.

Will peeks through his eyelashes, careful so as to not alert Hannibal. The other man places a blanket and pillow on the cold and hard floor, groaning softly when he settles down. Hannibal’s back is bruised and aching. He should be more mindful of himself; he knows. He rubs circles into his ribs slowly, knowing the lower ones are fractured. He can’t do much about them.

There are only enough supplies for one, and he uses them all for Will. Hannibal does without painkillers, opting for a sip of wine here and there to take the edge off. What Chiyoh failed to acquire in medical supplies, she had more than made up for with food and finery. She accommodated his tastes, as best she could.

“Will,” he whispers, turning onto his left side, the most comfortable position he can manage. He knows Will would not respond.

He listens to the sound of Will’s breath over the waves, lulling him to sleep. When he closes his eyes, he dreams of a vast home on the beach, Will at his side at the dinner table.

Will sits up from the bed, starring down at the man who terrifies so many. Now, he seems to be a fragile thing, malleable in some ways and breakable in others. Will lifts his fingertips, covered with black, feeling the danger which stirs within them. The black begins to crawl down his arms, sprawling like lightning bolts against his pale skin.

He could have Hannibal Lecter; he thinks to himself. To possess him, truly. Wholly. So that he couldn’t move a step out of a place without Will’s guidance. He thinks to himself how he could mold Hannibal, as Hannibal had molded him. He laughs to himself internally, wondering if Hannibal knew what guiding Will into his becoming would mean? 


End file.
